And The Beat Goes On...
by Karsa
Summary: What happens after Rent in my world - Now in handy Chapter form!
1. Cup O' Noodles

Cup O' Noodles  
  
  
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I don't own Rent. I don't even rent Rent. That belongs to Mr. Larson.   
I'm just borrowing his characters for my story.  
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The knock rang through my loft just as the oven timer let off it's   
piercing whistle. I rolled my eyes. It was probably Mimi, having lost   
her key again. Picking up my now-finished cup o' noodles, I headed   
towards the door. The knock came again, a little more insistent, a   
little more panicked.  
  
"Hold on, Mimi," I called, picking my way though a pile of screenplays   
that I, as always, had left on the floor. They were all crap, anyway.   
"I'm coming." Finally reaching the door, I unlocked it and took a sip   
of the scalding, if bland, broth in my styrofoam cup. "Lose your key   
again?"  
  
But the figure standing there wasn't Mimi. It was Maureen.  
  
She was soaked from the rain, and just stood there, dripping on my   
doorstep. She was beautiful, though. Her hair was plastered to the   
side of her head, and her red-rimmed eyes stared wildly at me in   
terror.  
  
"Mark.." she began weekly, biting her lip. "Mark."  
  
I just folded her into my arms, knowing that she'd compose herself and   
tell me all about how mean Joanne had been soon enough. That was   
something I never wanted to rush. One would think that Maureen would   
go to Collins or Mimi for her relationship problems. But she always   
came to me. It was because we were such "great friends." That is to   
say, she used me.  
  
Soon enough, I had her sitting on the table wrapped in a blanket,   
sipping my soup. I sat across from her on the table, trying to seem   
sympathetic this time. She looked bedraggled, to say the least.   
  
"What's up?" I asked, not wanting to show how much I truly cared.  
  
"Mark.." she took a deep breath. It looked as if she was in a lot of   
pain. "Mark, did you ever cheat on me?"  
  
I gave her an amazed look.   
  
"No, you were the only one who cheated."  
  
"Did you ever.. uh.. while we were going out, did you ever.. uhm.."   
she stuttered and stumbled over her words, sipping the soup   
nervously. "Did you ever.. maybe sleep with Roger?"  
  
I couldn't help it. If I had been able to, I would have, but there was   
nothing I could do. I laughed. "You've gone crazy, Maureen. Insane. Me   
and Roger? Let me guess, you got tired of protests and you're looking   
to direct a porn film now?"  
  
"Fuck you, Mark. Fuck you!" She began to cry again, letting her tears   
add some flavor to the otherwise tasteless soup.  
  
"Maureen?"  
  
"Fuck you!"  
  
I felt bad. I really did. "Maureen, why would you think I slept with   
Roger? He and I are just about the only straight guys you know."  
  
She sniffled a bit, but dried her tears before beginning to tell me.   
"I- I got sick, Mark. Really sick." She was choking on her words now,   
almost ready to swallow them and run. I reached out and put a   
reassuring hand on her knee. She seemed to calm a little. "I thought   
it was a cold, but it kept getting worse. I thought it must just be a   
strange flu. But it's not the flu."  
  
She paused, taking another draft of the soup. She was a mess, and I   
was afraid to rush her, terrified of what she might end up telling me.  
  
"When it kept getting worse, Joanne made me go to the clinic. That's   
where I came from, the clinic. The just got my tests back."  
  
"Maureen-"  
  
"Shut up, Mark. Just let me talk," she spit at me, glaring from   
beneath her stringy, wet hair.  
  
I shut up.  
  
"The got my tests back. I have.. I have AIDS, Mark. And you gave it to   
me."  
  
I could say nothing. AIDS? I didn't have AIDS. Roger was the one who   
had AIDS. I was the one who was going to survive. I was the healthy   
one. Finally, after what seemed like a forever, I managed to choke   
out, "No, I didn't."  
  
For the second time that night, I screwed up. When dealing with   
Maureen, one should never laugh and never deny. I had already laughed,   
so I went for broke. "I don't have AIDS."  
  
Strangely, she didn't seem too mad at me for denying her accusation.   
"That's what I said, Mark, but I do, and you must. I.. I know I   
cheated, but I cheated safely. You were the only one I was ever...   
unsafe with." She paused to sip the soup again, staring into my eyes.   
"Anything, Mark? Anyway you could have gotten AIDS?"  
  
I closed my eyes. "Yes," I told her, hearing the sharp intake of   
breath. "There is a way."  
  
It had been almost two years before. April was still alive, and she   
and Roger were living the high life. And by "the high life," I mean   
that they were living life high. Maureen and I had just had a fight,   
and I, the little puppy dog, had nothing to do without her. She had   
gone out to some bar with Collins and Benny, leaving me with Roger and   
April, both of whom were on heroin or cocaine or something to that   
effect.  
  
"C'mon, Mark," April coaxed, holding out a syringe. "You'll forget all   
about Maureen!"  
  
I gently declined, but Roger pushed.  
  
"Aww, Mark, you never have any fun these days. Maureen is bad for you.   
You should loosen up. Maybe she'll chill out if you're a little more   
fun, eh?"   
  
I rolled my eyes. So, pumping oneself full of mind numbing drugs was   
considered fun these days? That was messed up. But, the more he pushed   
into my despair, the more tempted I became to just stick myself and   
get it over with. Finally, after a jab about Maureen's latest beau on   
the side, I grabbed the syringe and plunged it into my arm. It stung,   
but nothing more then cruel Maureen had ever done to me.   
  
I never did find out what was in the syringe, but it just made me feel   
like more shit, so I continued to decline April and Roger's offers   
until they gave up. I never thought about it, even after April killd   
herlf and Roger was diagnosed. I couldn't have AIDS, I was   
indestructable. But I couldn't tell Maureen all that. Not in the state   
she was in.  
  
"I.. uh.. I might have shared a needle with April once."  
  
She was shocked. I knew she would be. Beneath her exhibitionist front   
was a scared girl from Hicksville who really had no clue about other   
people.  
  
"You didn't!" She cried, shocked. "You've never done a drug in your   
boring old life!"  
  
I shook my head "I did something, once, through a needle. I'm sorry,   
Maureen."  
  
"You'll have to get tested, too, you know."  
  
"I know," I said, frightened. Why hadn't this shown up at a doctor's   
visit? Why hadn't I been sick? Why was Maureen developing the   
symptoms? How on earth were we going to pay for AZT? Maureen closed   
her eyes and took a few deep breaths. "How am I going to tell Joanne?"   
she asked, her voice cracking a bit.  
  
I was stumped. I had no answer for that. "Do you want me to go with   
you? Maybe she'll listen better if I tell it?"  
  
Maureen shook her head, and picked herself off the chair.  
  
"Thank you Mark. Thanks, but no. You can't save me. Besides, you have   
to go to the clinic." She took of the blanket and put down the   
styrofoam soup cup, now drained to noodles and what the company   
claimed here vegetables. She tossed the blanket on the chair she had   
occupied and gave me a week smile. "Be well. I'll call you later, and   
let you know how things went."  
  
"You take care, Maureen," I said as I walked her to the door,   
snatching an umbrella on the way and handing it to her. "And take   
this. You can't get another cold, now can you?"  
  
She gave a small, empty chuckle as she turned to leave. Suddenly she   
turned and planted a kiss on my cheek. "Thank you again, Mark. You're   
wonderful."  
  
I closed the door behind her and sat down to ponder that. Me?   
Wonderful? I gave the one woman I ever loved a deadly disease. Maureen   
was insane. Suddenly, from outside, I heard a scream. I jumped up and   
bolted from the loft, but I knew what had happened.  
  
Arriving at the curb, my fears were proven correct. Maureen's ragged   
form was lying one the dented hood of a car, while some despite   
pedestrian performed CPR. Another man babbled into his cell phone,   
giving an address, but I didn't see it.   
  
I turned and went upstairs. Grabbing my camera up, I turned it on and   
focused it on my face. "February thirteenth, five-forty-six PM. Maureen   
Johnson, recently diagnosed with AIDS, has killed herself" I shut off   
the camera and sat down.   
  
Why was I so calm? The love of my life was lying prone on a car hood   
outside my window, and I wanted to document it? I would have thrown my   
camera, but I didn't seem to have the energy. All I could do was sit   
there, staring at the rain, as it poured in sheets down the window   
pane.  
  
Roger came home a few hours later and tried to tell me that Maureen   
had been killed, but I just sat there. I couldn't move. Maureen was   
dead. And without Maureen, the world had, once again, stopped turning.  
  
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This is to explain my other fic, and what happened to Maureen in my   
little fansasy land. Hoped you liked it. 


	2. Honey

Honey  
  
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I don't own Rent. I don't even rent Rent. That belongs to Mr. Larson.   
I'm just borrowing his characters for my story.  
-------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
"Honey, there's food here, if you want it!" Joanne called, placing the   
plate before the perpetually shut door. The rest of us sat around the   
loft with plates of our own.   
  
There were four of us now, me, Mimi, Collins and Joanne. We were all   
living in the loft again, if only because Joanne said she couldn't   
bare to be alone, and because Collins said I looked sick. Mark was   
technically in the loft too, but he never came out of his seclusion.  
  
It was the oddest thing, Mark's withdrawal. One day, he had been fine.   
He had been helping Mimi with the funeral preparations, and comforting   
Joanne and talking to us like the Mark we knew. And then, two days   
after the funeral, I came home to find a note on his door.   
  
"Roge- I'm taping, don't disturb."  
  
I didn't disturb him, but four hours later, Mimi had ventured a knock   
on his door. No reply. We tried to open the door, but it was locked.   
Fearing the worst, we called Collins, who scaled the side of the   
building to find Mark in front of his camera puttering around and   
cursing. That was the last we saw of him, because he drew the shades   
the next day. And that was a month ago.  
  
It was frustrating, to say the least. Every day, we would knock on   
that damn door, but it remained obstinate. We only knew he was alive   
because we could hear him late at night. And, every now and again, we   
would all go out and find the refrigerator supplies had been somewhat   
depleted. Mark was there, he just wasn't going to come out and see us.  
  
I carelessly swirled my fork around in the mashed potatoes, with no   
intention of eating them. My mom always made the best mashed potatoes,   
and Joanne made ours from a box. I couldn't bring myself to touch   
them, no matter how much anyone nagged me. They were gross. When Mark   
and I were able to scrape together enough money, we used to go and   
find some open-air market, and buy fresh vegetables. Then he would   
make pearl onions like Julia Child, I would make mom's potatoes, and   
we would both be sick the next day. It was great.  
  
Collins looked up from where he was poking his baked chicken. "I was   
thinking of making another code, on another ATM," he told us.   
"M-A-U-R-E-E-N on.. oh, how about the one next to the Starbucks?"  
  
A wry smile flitted across Joanne's thin lips. "Starbucks. She would   
have liked that."  
  
I smiled and continued to swirl my mashed potatoes.  
  
When the others were about done, Mimi put down her plate. "We never did   
watch Mark's film," she said, standing and wiping her hands carelessly   
on her pants. "We still could."  
  
I looked towards the projector sitting in the corner, there should be   
cobwebs on it, but with women back in the loft, someone had taken   
to dusting things. I exchanged a long look with Collins, who shrugged.   
"Why not?" he asked. "Maybe Mark will come out when he hears the   
narration."  
  
Placing down my untouched dinner, I began to prepare the projector, as   
Joanne cleared away the plate. She paused when she picked up my plate   
and glared at me." You will eat these, Roger. One day, you'll be too   
hungry to resist." I just nodded my head. One day, sure, I'd eat her   
evil potatoes. But not today.  
  
Just as I was about to throw the switch to being the movie, Mark's   
doorknob rattled. Our attention diverted, we all watched in wonder as   
someone who looked an awful lot like Mark stumbled forward, clutching   
a scarf.  
  
He looked wretched. His glasses were held together by string in most   
places, and hot glue in a few others. His clothing, which he probably   
hadn't changed in a month or so, was ragged and caked with crud. He   
had noticeably lost weight, his skin pulled tight across his bones. The   
worst part was his smell. I wont even go into how rank it was, but he   
had clearly not bathed the entire month he was in his room.  
  
Whimpering a little, he held the scarf out to us, as if expecting us to   
do something. Slowly, Mimi got up and moved to him. "Mark, honey, did   
you hurt your scarf?"  
  
Mark, or what there was of Mark in that wretched shell, nodded, hold   
it out for her to see. "Aw, Mark, that's just a little tear. We can   
fix that right up. Do you want some dinner?"  
  
We all watched in awe as he went to the table, sat down, and waited.   
Finally, Collins had the presence of mind to get himself into the   
kitchen and reheat something. Mark devoured it, barely chewing   
anything. When his hunger had been sated, he looked back at us,   
adjusted his glasses on his nose, and said, "Thanks guys, I feel   
better now."  
  
When none of us moved, he stood up and smiled. "I'm not a ghost and   
I'm not a zombie. I am Mark. I just look like shit. But I'm okay. I'm   
going to be okay."   
  
Unable to restrain myself any longer, I jumped up and enveloped Mark   
in my arms. "Good to have you back," I whispered, thumping his back   
affectionately.  
  
"Yeah, he replied. "I know."  
  
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There you go, instalment #3 in my warped Rent universe. #4 follows   
shortly!  
  
Thanks much to Rachael, my bonza Beta reader. She rocks my world! 


	3. My Glory

My Glory  
  
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I don't own Rent. I don't even rent Rent. That belongs to Mr. Larson.   
I'm just borrowing his characters for my story.  
-------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
I sat on the table, running my hands over the guitar strings. He   
plucked these just last week, as he lay prone on his hospital bed. He   
had plucked a chord and looked up at me, pulling one of my curls and   
saying over and over that the song was coming. The song that would   
change our lives, he said. It would come, he'd get some money, and we   
would have real heat in the apartment. And we'd be happy, with real   
heat and a real song.  
  
What could he write that would be better than the song that brought   
me back to him? I was so near to losing him forever. Or maybe he was   
close to losing me? I have no idea.  
  
Mark, as usual, had his camera turned on me. I lowered my eyes to the   
neck of the guitar. "Turn the damn thing off, Mark."  
  
"Mimi, some things need to be recorded."  
  
"This is not one of those things," I shot back, laying the guitar   
aside.  
  
He shut off the camera, but I knew that image would come back in his   
next film. The broken ex-junkie, her body riddled with death,   
cradling the guitar of the man she loved. It was too damn poetic for   
Mark to just let it go. Damn him.  
  
"He's been gone before," I began, stil not meeting Mark's penetrating   
gaze. "He's been gone for months. We'll survive." I looked up, but   
was only able to stare at the top of Mark's head. Of all the odd   
things to remember, I recall how much gel Mark used. Maureen once said   
it was like he poured wood glue on his head. But Maureen was gone,   
too.  
  
"He can't come back, Mimi," Mark told me, fiddling with some buttons   
on his camera.  
  
"Why not? I did, didn't I? I came back!"  
  
"Angel didn't come back. Maureen din't come back. You're the   
exception."  
  
"Roger will come back."  
  
Mark sighed in desperation, and gave me a look I despised. A look of   
pity. "You shouldn't be here, Mimi. You're only twenty-one. You   
shouldn't be here, you shouldn't have to see this."  
  
"Bull shit. I've seen a lot worse."  
  
"When I was 21, someone told me they never wanted to get older. That   
he just wanted to live in his crappy flat forever and never get any   
old, and never change. And then everything exploded."  
  
"Roger said that," I told him, before I thought. That stupid comment   
rated up there with what I said about April, that night when I first   
met Roger.  
  
I saw a tear spring to the filmmaker's eye, but he blinked it back   
and turned his damn box back on. "C'mon, Mimers, tell your adoring   
public what you really want from life."  
  
He crawled up on the table with me, as I had seen him do so many   
times with Roger. He pulled the camera up, too, zooming in on some   
remote part of my face. An eye, a freckle, a pore. I wiped the sweat   
from my brow and looked straight into the camera, wherever it was   
pointing. "I want Roger back."  
  
He flicked off the camera and set it between us, next to Roger's   
guitar. That was a bit of symbolism that, for once, Mark was not   
getting on film. I was oddly grateful. "Me too," he said, reaching   
for my hand, which I pulled away, shaking my head. Physical contact   
with Mark was fine, but not when I was dying.  
  
"You always said you'd outlive him. Why are you upset?"  
  
Swallowing again, Mark choked back what must have been a sob.   
"Because, Mimi, saying something and doing something are very   
different."  
  
"I know," I whispered, a tear rolling down my cheek. "I didn't want   
him to die, Mark, I didn't."  
  
"None of us did." He choked back another sob and enfolded me in his   
strong arms. "And none of us wanted to lose Maureen or Angel."  
  
"Why?" It was a rather stupid thing to ask, but it was all I could   
choke out between the oppressive waves of emotion washing over me.  
  
"We don't want to lose them because we love them. We love them   
because they loved us. We lose them because we can't control anything   
in this damned world. And if we could, it wouldn't be nearly as much   
fun to live."  
  
I felt his hands gently rubbing my back as he spoke, but I ignored   
the comforting sensations. "Roger said he was sick of fighting," I   
said, needing more than anything to tell Mark everything. "he said he   
had been fighting all his life, and he was ready to go."  
  
"Roger went through a lot, even before you knew him. His dad died   
when he was twelve, all the other children his mom tried to have were   
miscarriages, and with April, Angel and Maureen all going in five   
years, he was ready to go. He couldn't fight life anymore, so he let   
life win."  
  
"Since when is dying letting life win?" I asked, pulling out of his   
embrace and wiping away my tears with the back of my hand.  
  
"Since Roger decided the it had to be the end," he answered.  
  
"What a crappy end." I closed my eyes, and sighed. "Mark, turn on   
that damn box of yours." He did as he was told and lifted it to his   
eye. "Zoom out to get the whole of me." I watched him climb backwards   
off the table, never taking the camera from my face. He gave me the   
thumbs up, and I picked up the guitar again.  
  
"Roger, baby, you once played a song. You played a song to a   
fever-riddled body, already ravaged by a disease that you shared. You   
sang it to someone you loved, and that person came back because she   
loved you, too. So where the hell is the song I get to sing to you? I   
had a tough life, too. But I didn't go giving up just when I found   
someone to love. And then you, you prick, had to leave me. And I   
would hate you, if I could. But I can't and I love you. And I can't   
sing, or play the guitar. I tried writing you poetry, but it was all   
drivel. I tried writing a performance piece, and I tried blowing up   
some virtual realty equipment, but none of it made you better or   
brought you back. So, I'm making Mark film this. I love you Roger. I   
love you. You picked me up out of hell, and made me into someone who   
was loved and loved in return. And, Roger, baby, you didn't have to   
do any of that. You never had to love me or bring me back to life or   
give me a reason to continue to live. And now I'm sure I won't last   
much longer, and maybe I'll be with you again, but in case I'm not,   
I'll say it now. You always have been, and you always will be the man   
I care about." I sighed gently, and let the tears overtake my tired   
body as I sunk sobbing to the table.  
  
"Mimi-" Mark began, pulling himself onto the table and putting my   
head into his lap. "Mimi, that was perfect. That was your song. You   
are beautiful."  
  
"I am empty," I said, looking up through my blurry eyes, and choking   
down another sob. "I am empty."  
  
  
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This story was inspired by the picture on my desktop, of Mark on the   
table with his camera in Roger's face. Anyway, why do all the fics   
have Mark die? That makes me angry.  
  
This is my first fanfic since my sailormoon stuff, which I haven't   
done for a little over two years, so if it really sucks, let me know,   
I need to be told.   
  
Thanks to all the folks who give me courage and a reason to go on   
(and if I forget anyone, you may strike me): Eggy, Anh, Henry, Natty,   
Kevin, Benny, David, Ian, Claire, Jack, Petra, Noah, CornPopp, and   
the crazies I talk to late at night in the Bravenet chat (Renata,   
emily, Kevin, and all the others who complicate our evenings.) I care   
about you all.  
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	4. ...The Fighter Still Remains

...The Fighter Still Remains  
  
-------------------------------------------------------------------  
I don't own Rent. I don't even rent Rent. That belongs to Mr. Larson.   
I'm just borrowing his characters for my story. If you want to use   
them, you'll have to talk to someone else  
-------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
I dreamt of the way that my mom used to slice peaches into her cereal   
in the mornings. One by one they would get systematically wedged and   
thrown, bobbing helplessly, into a bowl of Cornflakes and low-fat   
milk. I dreamt of being one of those thin slices, allowing the milk to   
soak into my firm orange flesh before the spoon came down, barely   
missing me. I awoke to Mark's quiet voice muttering with a doctor.  
  
"How much longer, Dr. Berdann?"  
"He's very sick. You don't look so good yourself-"  
"Look, Doctor, when is he going to die?"  
"Probably within the week, sir."  
"Well, fuck you," Mark exclaimed as he stormed into my room. He looked   
like shit. He had been with me every waking moment, and though I told   
him to get his pale ass out of the hospital, he refused to let me slip   
away.  
  
How many times had I told him, or Mimi or Joanne to go home? They   
needed to sleep in their own beds, at home. Sleeping in chairs in a   
waiting room is bad for the soul. But they insisted on staying to fend   
off the people coming to see me with flowers and balloons and wishes   
from people I hadn't seen in years. What is it about dying that makes   
everyone come out? Is there some huge buzzard that sits in the   
hospital basement calling people? How do they find out?  
  
"Hey," I offered weekly.  
"Hey. How they treating you?"  
"Good enough, good enough," I told him. "Marky, is there anyway you   
could get me some fresh fruit? A peach, an apple, a pear? I need   
something."  
I saw the look on Mark's face before I remembered. The tube. My hand   
went to my nose, where the goddamn thing was eating for me. I wasn't   
allowed to eat solid food anymore. My system, the doctors said,   
couldn't handle it. Fuck the doctors.  
Mark covered his face with his hands and took a deep breath. He hated   
being here, he hated seeing me. He and I had been friends forever- god   
knows how he must have felt. I reached out and took his hand.  
"Don't be scared," I told him, feeling him recoil a bit at my touch.   
Right, infection. Fuck that. If I was already dying, who cared if I   
got more infection? Stupid doctors.  
"Scared? Scared? I'm not scared. There is nothing left to be scared   
of."  
"Sure there is. Life. Death. Hate. Love. AIDS."  
"Oh, fuck that. I've lost three people to it already. You expect I'll   
worry about losing myself? Fuck that!"  
"You don't worry about losing me?"  
"I worry about that the most these days."  
I held back a tear. Mark and I had met in grade school, where he was   
the geeky boy who liked to take pictures and I was the kid who beat   
all the computer games within a week of getting them. No one else   
liked us, so we gravitated to each other. He taught me about art, and   
I taught him about pong. It was a beautiful friendship. It had gome on   
like that for years- Mark and Tommy, the class losers. By the time we   
got to High School, talking to us was basically a social death   
sentence. But who cared what a bunch of doped up assoles thought of   
us?  
And now I was dying. I knew it, he knew it, and Mimi and Joanne knew   
it.  
A wave of dizziness overtook me, and I closed my eyes. When I opened   
them again, Mark was still peering down anxiously, my hand clenched   
tightly in his.   
"Marky," I whispered, causing him to lean closer. "Remember that   
Christmas? The one before we met Angel? The one where we just settled   
around the bush you and I had stolen from central park with Roger,   
April, and Maureen and talked about what we would give if we could?   
And then April came in with that huge plate of cookies that she got at   
the bakery where she worked? And we all ate them, but they crumbled in   
our hands, and we were covered with cookie crumbs and laughing and   
making horrid puns about having an crummy Christmas?" He nodded   
slowly, a sad smile spreading across his face.  
"How could I forget? And then Benny came in with actual presents. That   
was the best Christmas ever."  
I nodded and reached over to the bedside table, where Mimi had placed   
a small box.  
"This is for you, Mark. It's what he gave me that day. You need it   
now."  
I watched as he opened it slowly, and pulled out the ornate pocket   
watch. Gently he flipped over the inscription on the inside. "Because  
time is measured in more than seconds."  
Well, someone had to remind him. Mark's time was growing short, and he   
still hadn't found what he needed.  
Mark let a tear trace its path down his cheek and put the watch into   
the pocket of his old cords.  
"Keep it in health," I told him. "Forever."  
And with that, I sank back on my pillow, surrounded by machines that   
counted my heartbeats and monitored my brain activity. And there,   
nestled in my safe, digital haven, I closed my eyes and I wept.  
  
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A note on the title: I bought a CD that I haven't stopped listening   
to. As I was finishing this story, a song came on, and that's where the   
title comes from. The context? Look below.  
  
In the clearing stands a boxer  
And a fighter by his trade  
And he carries a reminder   
Of every glove   
That laid him down or cut him  
'Til he cried out  
In his anger and his shame  
"I am leaving, I am leaving"  
But the fighter still remains.  
~Simon and Garfunkle, The Boxer (copyright 1968)  
  
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Thanks to Emily and Rachael who beta'd this one. You guys are great!  
  
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Okay, a quick note.... as those who have read my old crappy SailorMoon  
stories may recall, I left them hanging after two chapters of a story.  
(Which I have no intention of finishing.) If I stop posting stories, it  
is not because I don't love all of you, because I do. I start school   
again on the 4th, and I recently got majorly busted for doing something  
bad, so downtime may be scarse, and devoted to placating angry parents.  
So, if you need me in the future, send me out a review with a "REPLY   
PLEASE" stuck somewhere in there, and I'll e-mail you back. Okay?  
Thanks, all.  
  
~Karsa 


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